


FAMILY TIES

by rubyelf



Category: Lord of the Rings - All Media Types
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-01-14
Updated: 2013-01-14
Packaged: 2017-11-25 10:33:07
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 15,965
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/637977
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/rubyelf/pseuds/rubyelf
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Belongs to the same AU as "Faramir's Dilemma", "Reasons Not to Trust an Elf", "Under Pressure", and others. Aragorn is overly anxious about the expected arrival of his first child. Arwen finds this extremely annoying and manages, in her usual devious ways, to arrange everything just the way she wants it. Well, except for the dragon, of course. And Eomer really, really shouldn't drink that much. Oh, and should also note that one of my LiveJournal friends awarded it "BEST INTERRUPTION OF SEX EVER". You'll see.</p>
            </blockquote>





	FAMILY TIES

Merry and Pippin sat at the table, with several books on each chair to raise them to the proper height, and for once entirely silent. Gandalf’s multicolored, diaphanous smoke rings drifted over the empty plates as the wizard leaned back in his chair and drew at his pipe. Boromir scowled and swatted away a smoke ring that floated into his face.

“Stop fouling my ale with your stupid party tricks.”

Gandalf raised a bushy eyebrow. “You’re even more delightful company than usual this evening, Lord Steward. What exactly has put you in such a pleasant mood?”

“Unexpected arrivals of certain wizards certainly helped,” he muttered.

“Hmm. But I’m always unexpected, and you’re not always quite this unpleasant.”

“I didn’t feel like company for dinner,” Boromir said. “Our two young friends here invited you without informing me.”

“It would have been bad manners not to invite him,” Merry said.

“Very bad manners,” Pippin agreed, reaching for a slice of ham that was still left on one of the plates.

“He could have eaten with the royal couple,” Boromir said.

Gandalf shook his head. “Seems that they weren’t in the mood for company.”

“What a surprise,” Boromir said, reaching for his ale.

“Oh?” Gandalf asked.

Boromir ignored him. The hobbits, of course, were quick to answer in his stead.

“Well, you know, Arwen’s going to have a baby,” Pippin informed him.

“I had noticed that,” the wizard said, eyeing the younger hobbit.

“Well, seems she’s rather not been feeling well, and Aragorn, of course, is keeping her company and tending to her.”

Gandalf chuckled. “Is he. I don’t imagine she appreciates that as much as he thinks she does.”

“I think he’s feeling worse than she is,” Pippin said, glancing at his cousin and grinning.

“I suspect that’s probably the case,” Merry agreed. “Last time we saw him, he was just as ill-tempered as our Steward here.”

“Almost as ill-tempered,” Pippin corrected. “No one can be quite as ill-tempered as our Steward.”

“Aragorn wasn’t in a very good mood, though,” Merry reminded him. “He threw us right out of dinner.”

“That’s because you ate Arwen’s dessert.”

“She wasn’t going to eat it,” Merry said. “Besides, you ate Aragorn’s steak, and he _was_ going to eat it.”

“It was getting cold,” Pippin argued.

“And what makes you think Arwen isn’t well?” Gandalf asked, interrupting.

“Oh, she just doesn’t look terribly happy,” Merry said.

“Quite uncomfortable,” Pippin agreed.

“That is perfectly normal,” Gandalf said firmly.

“Arwen knows that perfectly well,” Boromir muttered, poking at his food. “It’s her daft husband that doesn’t.”

“Ahh,” the wizard said. “I see. Aragorn is… overly concerned?”

“I wouldn’t know,” Boromir said, reaching for his ale again.

“Nobody’s seen much of him lately,” Merry added.

“Not much at all,” Pippin agreed. “In fact, Boromir hasn’t thrown us out of his rooms and made us go sleep in our own beds for weeks…”

Merry’s eyes widened slightly and clamped a hand over his cousin’s mouth. “Hush, Peregrin.”

“Weeks, hmm?” Gandalf noted.

“Don’t listen to Pippin,” Merry said, glancing at Boromir.

“No wonder you’re in such a bad mood,” the wizard said, tapping the ash out of his pipe. “And ordinarily I would want nothing to do with the whole mess, but it seems to be affecting the level of hospitality which I am accustomed to receiving, seeing as how I have been forced to dine in the Steward’s rather un-luxurious private rooms, and with hobbits stealing food off my plate, no less. I shall have to remedy the situation.”

“That was Pippin,” Merry protested. “I was closer to Boromir’s plate.”

Boromir gave the old man a sharp look. “I can’t remember anything that’s happened since the Ring was destroyed that was improved by your meddling. In fact, I’m not entirely sure your meddling didn’t make that whole business worse as well.”

Gandalf stood up, ignoring him as he pocketed his pipe. “I doubt that Arwen is appreciating her husband’s constant attention any more than you’re appreciating the constant lack of it.”

Boromir scowled. “And what makes you think that Aragorn being preoccupied has anything to do with my lack of hospitality? I’ve never exactly been noted for it.”

“True enough,” Merry agreed.

“Because I happen to know that since you continue to refuse the irrepressible advances of the two young hobbits here, Aragorn’s absence has almost certainly resulted in a distinct lack of certain personal activities for both of you.”

Pippin glanced at Merry.

“He’s saying neither of them have been properly fucked in far too long,” Merry translated.

“Oh. I could have told him that,” Pippin said.

“Meriadoc!” Boromir burst out, red-faced.

“Well, you haven’t,” Pippin pointed out.

“Not that we haven’t offered to help,” Merry said.

Gandalf shook his head. “That’s more than enough, young Brandybuck. And whatever you’re about to say, Peregrin… don’t.”

Pippin scowled. “It might not have had anything to do with Aragorn or Boromir or anything dirty, you know.”

Gandalf  sighed. “All right. What is it?”

“I was going to say that even if Boromir did let us help him out, neither of us is properly equipped to…”

“Peregrin Took!”

“I didn’t say it _wasn’t_ about that,” Pippin protested. “I only said it _might_ not be.”

Gandalf walked toward the door, rolling his eyes. “Hobbits.”

Boromir waited until he was gone before giving the hobbits a stern look. “Is there a reason you two had to invite that meddling old fool to dinner?”

“Of course,” Pippin said.

“And would you care to explain that reason to me?”

“Because Aragorn won’t even let us in the door to try to talk to him,” Merry said.

“Why not?”

“Might have something to do with a certain young Took making a comment during breakfast about thinking that Aragorn was in need of a certain sort of personal attention that involved your…”

Boromir waved his hand sharply. “All right, all right. No wonder he won’t let you come back.”

“So we thought maybe Gandalf could talk some sense into him,” Merry explained. “Aragorn actually listens to him occasionally.”

“You know, I don’t appreciate you meddling with my personal business.”

“If you were _having_ any personal business, we wouldn’t have to be meddling with it,” Pippin pointed out.

Boromir glared at him. “My personal business is none of _your_ business.”

“Of course it is,” Pippin said, leaning over to wrap his arms around Boromir’s neck.

“Why is that?” the man asked, unable to maintain his annoyance.

“Because we love you,” Pippin reminded him, kissing his bearded cheek.

“And because when you’re in a bad mood, none of us have any fun,” Merry added.

Pippin shot him a sharp look. “But mostly because we love you.”

“Mostly that,” Merry agreed.

 

Faramir sighed and knocked on the door in front of him again before turning to Gandalf.

“I told you he wouldn’t answer me.”

Gandalf rolled his eyes. “Of all the idiotic…”

Legolas shrugged. “Rather typical, for mortals.”

Gandalf gave him a sharp look. “I thought I told you to wait in the hall.”

“You did,” Legolas said, leaning back and crossing his arms.

There was the sound of a discussion being held inside the room, and after a moment Aragorn opened the door, scowling and looking a bit unkempt.

“What do you want?”

“To see what you’re doing holed up in your rooms like a hermit instead of out doing your proper duties,” Faramir said. “My brother’s doing yours along with his own, and it’s not making him very pleasant to be around.”

“Not to mention the other…”

“Legolas,” Faramir warned.

Legolas smiled compliantly.

“I would think,” Aragorn said, sounding a bit frazzled, “that at such a time I would be with my wife, doing…”

“Doing what, exactly?” Gandalf asked, pushing past Aragorn and striding into the room, where he found Arwen seated in her usual chair, wearing a loose dress and her hair down around her shoulders, a book open in her lap.

“Greetings, my Queen,” he said, nodding.

She looked up at him with an expression of minor desperation. “Gandalf! What a pleasure! We haven’t had many visitors lately.”

“No? Why is that?”

She directed a pointed look at Aragorn.

“I didn’t think that she or the baby needed to be disturbed,” Aragorn said, sounding slightly sheepish.

“Disturbed? By someone coming in for a chat? What do you think women do when they’re with child, Estel, stay locked in their rooms and knit?”

“That seems appropriate, yes,” Aragorn said, frowning. “Especially…”

“Especially what?” Faramir asked, strolling in. “Especially when it’s _your_ wife and it’s the heir to _your_ throne she’s got in there?”

Aragorn looked back and forth from the younger man to the wizard.

“I just want to make sure she’s resting and has everything she needs to be comfortable,” he said. “This is a stressful time for her…”

“She doesn’t look terribly stressed,” Faramir said, glancing at Arwen, who smiled easily. “Are you sure it’s not more stressful for you?”

Aragorn glared at him. “Who put you up to this, anyway? Gandalf, what are you up to?”

“What I am up to,” the wizard informed him, “is telling you that you are driving your poor wife insane and to leave her alone!”

“Driving her… what? You don’t...”

He turned to Arwen. “Tell them!”

“Tell them what, Estel?” she said gently. Then, to Gandalf, “He is trying, you know. But he’s right, Estel. You’re driving me insane.”

“What? Why? All I’ve been doing is trying to…”

“Estel,” she said firmly. “I’ve tried to tell you this before. I’m fine. The baby is fine.”

“How can you be so sure?” Aragorn demanded.

Arwen held up her hands in an appeal to Faramir and Gandalf. “When I’m hungry, he brings me everything they have in the kitchen. When I’m not hungry, he thinks I’m ill. If he thinks it’s too chilly he piles blankets on me, and if he thinks it’s too warm, he makes me move away from the window so I’m out of the sun. If the baby kicks, he’s afraid it’s upset. If the baby doesn’t kick, he’s afraid something is wrong with it. If you’re going to do this for another month, Estel, I’m going to have to call the locksmiths and have them change the locks on my doors!”

Aragorn stared at her blankly. Faramir and Gandalf glanced at each other and smiled, and Gandalf laid a hand on Aragorn’s shoulder.

“Come with us, Estel. I’ve got something to keep you occupied.”

“But I…”

He looked anxiously toward Arwen.

“Estel, darling, if you really do love me… _please_ go away.”

Faramir muffled a chuckle. Gandalf escorted Aragorn toward the door.

“Where are we going?”

“I’ve arranged a bit of a celebration tonight. Something to keep you distracted for a while, at least. Now, come along… the horses are already waiting.”

“Horses? We’re going out of the city?” Aragorn asked, alarmed. “But what if…”

Arwen sighed. “I’ve told you I don’t know how many times, Estel. The baby’s not coming any time soon. I don’t have to have my grandmother’s gift of visions to know that.”

“But what if you’re wrong and…”

“Estel, it’s not going to…”

“I know, but it could…”

Faramir and Gandalf both ducked, astonished, as the book that had been resting placidly in Arwen’s lap was suddenly flying at Aragorn’s head. Being not very aerodynamic, it struck him in the shoulder instead, leaving him staring at his wife in dumfounded bewilderment. Gandalf had spent enough time in the company of Elrond and his sons to recognize the fire in the normally composed features.

“Estel,” she said, her voice calm but her eyes flashing. “If you do not get out of this room this minute, and stay away at least long enough to give me some peace and quiet, the next thing I throw at you is going to be something very sharp.”

Aragorn opened his mouth, then closed it.

“Come, now,” Faramir said, taking him by the arm. “We’ve got a nice, distracting evening planned for you.”

“If you’re planning on sending me off with Boromir and thinking that just because we’re in the same place at the same time, someone will…”

“Of course not,” Gandalf said soothingly, steering him into the hall. “We’re not going to do something vulgar and foolish like sending you off with Boromir and expecting you two to kiss and make up. Faramir and Legolas are coming, and Eomer and Berendir are going to join us…”

Faramir raised an eyebrow. “You didn’t tell me that.”

“Does it matter?”

“Only if you’re looking forward to Boromir and Eomer getting into a fist fight.”

Gandalf shrugged. “My money is on Eomer; he’s younger. Anyway, they’ll be joining us, and I’ll bring some fireworks and other entertainment. The kitchen’s already packed us some good things to eat, and Faramir’s had his men set us up with some good sturdy tents and bedrolls…”

“How long are you planning on us being gone?” Aragorn demanded.

“Oh, just till morning,” Gandalf said lightly, pushing Aragorn out the door and murmuring to Arwen over his shoulder. “Probably plenty of time to call that locksmith, my dear lady.”

She laughed. “I can’t thank you enough.”

“You can,” he said, bowing, “by making sure that this child arrives safe and sound. There has not been blood of Noldor elves in the lineage of Numenorean kings for a long, long time…”

“You do realize that at the moment, the fate the lineage of Numenor is not the first thing on my mind,” she said.

“Perhaps not,” the wizard said. “But this child will also be the first link between the races of elves and men since your father and his twin chose their separate paths.”

“You’re almost as tiresome as my husband,” she said, shaking her head. “Before this child will be anything, it will be a small, noisy creature that eats and sleeps and dirties diapers, and that’s the part I’m thinking about. Now, if you’d be so kind as to hand me my book…”

Gandalf picked the book up off the floor and studied it. “You appear to have damaged it.”

She shrugged. “That was probably from last time I threw it at him. It hit the wall that time.”

“My lady, if I may…”

“Would you like to see how good my aim with a book is, Gandalf?”

“No, ma’am, I would not,” he said, and quickly ducked out of the room to follow Aragorn, who was being semi-willingly escorted down the hall by Faramir and Legolas.

“You didn’t invite any hobbits, did you?” Aragorn was asking.

“Of course I didn’t,” Faramir said. “But no one ever does, and that doesn’t seem to keep them from always managing to show up.”

“I wouldn’t put it past Boromir to bring them just to spoil any fun you two might have,” Legolas added. “He seems to be cultivating a foul mood and wouldn’t want to ruin it.”

“I thought you said this wasn’t a silly attempt to get us alone together,” Aragorn said.

Legolas shrugged. “Someone may have said that, but it certainly wasn’t me. Come along, Estel.”

 

 

Aragorn glanced over at the elf riding beside him as they approached a group of square military tents set up around a large, brightly burning camp fire. Legolas was whistling contentedly to himself, but Aragorn knew the elf had something on his mind; if his rider was truly relaxed, Arod usually walked with an easy, swinging stride, but at the moment the horse was alert, ears flicked back to attend to any command.

“What are you up to?” he demanded.

Legolas raised an eyebrow. “Me? Nothing.”

“You’re lying.”

“You’ve never been able to tell when I’m lying, Estel,” he said cheerfully.

“No, but your horse gives you away.”

Legolas shot a dirty look at the back of the horse’s head and muttered something in Sindarin. Arod snorted in protest.

“I’m not up to anything. Just contemplating the upcoming events,” Legolas said finally.

“I see. What events would those be?”

The elf grinned. “Oh, you and Boromir pretending you’re not ready to tear each other’s clothes off because you’re both too stubborn to admit it, Boromir and Eomer as likely as not to try to kill each other… and the other things, of course.”

“What other things?”

Legolas chuckled. “You’ll see. Come on… the others are already there.”

In the fading sunlight, six horses grazed contentedly at the outskirts of the makeshift camp, their saddles set aside and the contents of the packs they carried unpacked and examined by four men and two elves seated on logs around the fire.

“Well, the kitchen made sure we wouldn’t starve,” Boromir observed. “This is rather an excessive amount of food for one night… especially if the hobbits aren’t here.”

“Oh, we thought we might stay an extra night or two,” Legolas said mildly; he was laying on his back on one of the logs, his legs in close-fitting green cloth draped across Faramir’s lap. Faramir was using them to balance the wooden mugs he had just unpacked, and gave the elf a sharp look when he stirred and nearly tipped them over.

“Hold still. I don’t want dirt in my mug.”

“Then don’t use a bloody elf as a table,” Boromir muttered.

“What do you mean, an extra night or two?” Aragorn exclaimed, alarmed.

“Oh, stop,” Faramir said, chuckling. “Gandalf made us promise to tie you up and keep you here if you tried to escape. You’re our prisoner for the moment, so relax.”

Aragorn sat back, scowling. “You don’t seem to appreciate that…”

“That what?” Eomer asked, pulling several bottles of some dark liquor from one of the packs. “That women have been managing this whole child-bearing business since the beginning of Arda, and I’ve never known one to need a man’s assistance.”

“Except for the first part,” Berendir noted, taking the bottles from Eomer as he pulled out a few more. “And you’ve clearly already managed your part of that.”

Legolas snickered, and Faramir gave him a warning look. The elf grinned, but his expression changed abruptly and his eyes widened as Faramir glanced at him again. The man chuckled, but a moment later his face flushed red and he seemed abruptly very aware of the long, muscular legs draped across his lap. Boromir growled.

“If you two are going to have whatever sort of secret dirty conversation…”

“There’s nothing secret about it,” Legolas said. “If you like, I’ll tell you exactly why your brother’s face is so red…”

“Legolas,” Aragorn said warningly.

“I wish I could put dirty pictures into your head when you’re off doing other things,” Berendir said, taking yet another bottle of liquor from Eomer.

“You do… all the time,” Eomer said. “You must, anyway, because my head’s full of dirty pictures of you the vast majority of the day.”

“Only the majority?” Boromir scoffed. “Is there a time when you’re not thinking about doing filthy things to that elf?”

Eomer shrugged. “Only the times when I’m actually doing filthy things to him. Why? Do you want to hear about some? We’ve got an abundance of leatherworkers in Rohan, and some of them have specialties other than saddles and belts, if you know what I mean.”

“I don’t want to know what you mean,” Boromir muttered.

“Now, just because you’re not having any fun doesn’t mean no one else should be,” Legolas said, grinning at the man. Boromir started to rise, and there was definitely something in his expression that suggested he was considering strangling the elf, but Aragorn stepped forward quickly, pushing Boromir back toward his seat.

“You do know he just says thing like that to piss you off,” Aragorn reminded him.

“No, I say them because they’re true,” Legolas said. “Pissing him off is just an entertaining side effect.”

Aragorn glanced over his shoulder. “Legolas, if you don’t shut up, I’ll have you banned from Faramir’s rooms for a month.”

Legolas fell silent, seeming to consider this proposition. Aragorn sat down next to Boromir, mostly to grab hold of him if the elf decided to irk him again.

“I think we need to open some of these bottles,” Eomer said, pulling the cork out of one of the liquor bottles and sniffing it. “Hmm! That’s powerful stuff!”

Aragorn took another bottle and pulled the cork. “Ahh. Gandalf’s favorite whiskey. I don’t know where he gets it, but I know it’s good.”

Faramir handed out mugs, and Aragorn and Eomer began dispensing the whiskey. Legolas sat up and accepted a mug, studying it skeptically.

“This stuff smells like something you’d use to preserve hides.”

“It would probably work for that,” Eomer agreed, taking a drink. “You’re not afraid of a bit of liquor, are you?”

“Have you forgotten a certain drinking contest you witnessed?” Legolas challenged.

“That was ale,” Eomer said dismissively. “And you out-drank a _dwarf_.”

Berendir took a sip of the stuff and coughed. “That’s awful!”

“It gets better the more you drink,” Aragorn said, as Boromir took a generous swallow of his.

“Really?”

“No,” Faramir said, “but you stop noticing after a bit. How many bottles of this did the old man send us?”

Eomer rummaged around in the bottom of the pack. “Looks like that’s all… what’s this, now?”

He pulled out a neatly folded note.

“Says it’s for you, Boromir.”

“Damnit,” Boromir muttered. “Want to take bets on whether it’s from a couple of bloody hobbits?”

He unfolded the paper and read what was written in Merry’s tidy, proper handwriting. His eyes widened, and he looked up at the others, all of them currently sampling the contents of their mugs.

“You might want to put those down,” Boromir said.

Aragorn looked up, alarmed. “What?”

Before Boromir could respond, Faramir had snatched the note out of his hands and was reading it aloud.

“Dearest Boromir,” he read, slapping Legolas’ leg when he snickered. “We know you’ve been in need of cheering up, and we wanted to make sure that this little camping excursion put you in a better mood, so we had a bit of a chat with Arwen, and she gave us a bit of something special to add to the whiskey bottles. Hope you and your companions enjoy the effects and find them… stimulating?”

“Stimulating?” Eomer repeated, raising his eyebrows.

“Stimulating,” Faramir confirmed, before continuing. “By the time you find this note, you’ll probably all have had some, so it’ll be too late to do anything about it, so you might as well enjoy it. Love and kisses…” (here he had to slap Legolas on the leg again rather more sharply to stop his giggling), “Meriadoc Brandybuck and Peregrin Took.”

“Their names are going to be black and blue when I get hold of them,” Boromir said sharply. “What the hell did they put in the whiskey?”

Berendir studied his mug, which was nearly empty. “I suppose we’re going to find out.”

“If Arwen gave it to them, it’s bound to be something involving you two,” Faramir said, indicating Aragorn and Boromir with his mug.

“Maybe it’s an aphrodisiac,” Legolas mused.

Berendir glanced at Eomer with feigned nervousness. “If it is, I’m sleeping somewhere else.”

“I don’t need an aphrodisiac to fuck you into next week,” Eomer said, grinning.

Boromir covered his eyes. “Don’t say things like that.”

“Why? Your brother’s doing the same thing to _his_ elf.”

“ _Definitely_ don’t say that,” Boromir growled.

“You need more to drink, brother,” Faramir said helpfully, reaching for the bottle. “Whatever it is, Arwen has better sense than to do us any permanent harm, so you might as well drink up.”

“I’m not sure I agree with that logic,” Aragorn said uneasily.

Boromir glanced at him. “Legolas is right, for once. You do have a stick up your royal arse. Faramir, give this man more whiskey immediately.”

 

Gandalf waved his staff over the mirror, and the image of the men around the fire disappeared. Arwen smiled, and the two hobbits sitting beside her beamed and giggled. The wizard shook his head.

“The more often I’m in this city, the more I start to think hobbit-ness is contagious,” he muttered. “What did you put in that whiskey, anyway?”

“Not a damned thing,” Merry said, laughing so hard that Pippin had to pull him back onto the sofa. “We didn’t even get near the bottles.”

Gandalf glanced at Arwen. “You knew about this?”

She smiled serenely. “Sometimes, Mithrandir, the power of suggestion is just as effective as any of your finest spells.”

“And what do you expect this to do?”

“You know perfectly well what I expect it to do,” she said. “Now, off with you two… you’re going to giggle yourselves to death.”

The hobbits darted off down the hall, still laughing. Gandalf turned to leave, but Arwen cleared her throat.

“Gandalf?”

“Yes, my lady?”

He was surprised to find that, for the first time in his memory, the Queen seemed to be blushing slightly. “Is there any way… that you could leave that mirror spell active? Just so I can… keep an eye on things.”

Gandalf huffed into his beard to hide his grin. “Of course, my lady. Is there a particular tent you’d like a view of?”

“I was thinking I ought to keep an eye on all three.”

“Hmm. Do you have two more mirrors, my lady?”

“That I do,” she said, indicating the dressing table on the other side of the room.

“Excellent,” Gandalf said. “Give me a few moments to set up the spells, and I’ll leave you to your… concerned observation.”

She smiled. “You’re always so helpful. Oh, and lock the door, please… I wouldn’t want to be… distracted.”

 

 

By the time darkness had settled fully over the camp, most of the bottles were completely empty, although it was likely that toward the end a decent bit of it had missed the mug it was intended for and spilled on the ground. The horses, probably at Arod’s suggestion, had moved quite a bit farther away in order to avoid the worst of the noise, which for some time had involved Eomer telling very bawdy stories that were probably supposed to be jokes, except that he seemed to keep mixing them up in the middle, and always ended with something about tits, which seemed not to impress Berendir tremendously, given the slender archer’s lack thereof. Boromir had begun to find these jokes extremely amusing, although he wasn’t quite sure why, though his complete inability to remember where Eomer had started them probably had something to do with it. Aragorn sat next to him, just as drunk but staring morosely into the fire.

“Must do something about that,” Legolas noted, from his position on Faramir’s lap with the man’s arms around his chest, absently pinching at his nipples through his tunic.

“About what?” Faramir asked, shifting himself to arrange the elf more comfortably (or so that the cheeks of his buttocks were closer to Faramir’s very interested regions.

“About all four of them, you idiot. Eomer’s so drunk he’s forgotten there was supposed to be an aphrodisiac in that liquor… not that it matters, but he’s got Boromir distracted and Boromir is supposed to be in his tent fucking our reluctant king into a better mood by now.”

“Are you going to tell them there was nothing in the liquour?” Faramir asked.

“No. I wasn’t supposed to know. I’d have guessed anyway, though, even if I hadn’t overheard a bit of hobbit chatter… it’s more like the Lady Arwen to amuse herself by meddling with people’s minds rather than their actual behavior.”

“Well, Eomer’s out of his mind, and Boromir’s so gone he even thinks Eomer’s jokes are funny… although I’m not sure it qualifies as a joke if you fumble through various parts of three or four different jokes and then blurt out something about breasts at the end.”

“It does if you’re at a pub,” Faramir noted. “Or with soldiers on leave.”

“I’m not impressed. And besides, it’s not getting us anywhere.”

He felt Faramir smile against his neck. “Perhaps they need a bit of inspiration.”

Legolas frowned. “I certainly hope you don’t mean what I think you mean.”

“Aren’t you the one who’s lying all over me every time you get the chance, if there’s no one but these folks around?”

“Well, half of that’s just to piss off Boromir.”

Faramir pretended to be insulted. “Well, fine then.”

“Besides, that’s hardly the same as putting on a performance, you know.”

“You didn’t even listen to what I had in mind,” Faramir said, pinching one nipple a little harder to make the elf squirm. “All I was suggesting is that we remind them that we’ve supposedly all been dosed with the stuff and get them back on track.”

Legolas rolled his eyes. “I don’t appreciate… ouch!”

Faramir smiled. “Sorry. Too hard?”

“You’re evil. All right. What do you want?”

Eomer was in the middle of one of his rambling tales when Berendir suddenly elbowed him and pointed to the other side of the fire. Eomer started to protest, but when he looked where Berendir was pointing, his jaw dropped open and stayed that way, because Legolas was straddling Faramir’s lap, the man’s hands down the back of the elf’s breeches, Legolas working busily at Faramir’s tunic, the two of them locked in the kind of kiss that would have made random strangers walking by stop and stare. Boromir, noticing that Eomer had stopped talking, followed his gaze and froze, staring, and even Aragorn looked up from the fire to gawk as the pair made a point of groping and half-undressing each other, apparently oblivious to their audience.

“What the hell is that all about?” Eomer asked. “Those two aren’t…”

“Maybe it’s the liquor,” Berendir said, glancing at him. “Whatever Arwen put in it seems to be affecting them.”

“Hmm,” Eomer said thoughtfully, glancing at Berendir. “It’s not affecting you?”

“I’m an elf,” Berendir said archly.

“Seems to have gotten to your brother.”

“Well, it’s not doing anything to me.”

“Maybe you just need something to get you started,” Eomer said, grinning, and before the elf could respond, the man had toppled him backwards off his log onto the ground. Berendir’s startled exclamation was muffled by Eomer’s mouth, and Legolas glanced over his shoulder with amusement as his brother ceased complaining and wrapped his legs around Eomer’s sturdy waist as the man groped him.

Boromir glanced over and blinked at the sight of the pair, which was now mostly just their legs and feet visible over the top of the log.

“Well,” he said, to nobody in particular. He would certainly have been lying, though if he’d tried to insist that Legolas and Faramir intimately molesting each other right in front of him, while Eomer was from the sounds of it trying to do all sorts of things to Berendir despite the layers of clothing that happened to be in the way, wasn’t having a rapid and noticeable effect on his own anatomy.

Aragorn, sitting beside him, glanced from one pair to the other. “It seems whatever that stuff was has had quite the effect.”

Boromir shrugged. “Hard to tell with Eomer. He’d fuck that elf on the King’s Table in the Golden Hall if someone dared him to and he’d had a few drinks.”

Aragorn nodded toward Faramir and Legolas, raising his eyebrows. “Those two aren’t usually quite that… well, you know.”

“I do believe the stuff’s starting to affect me,” Boromir admitted, his level of intoxication having something to do with the confession, but also the steadily growing demand in his pants.

“I think it must be getting to me too,” Aragorn said, and from the way he was staring at Faramir and Legolas, Boromir could see that all thoughts of Arwen and parenthood had been temporarily erased from his mind.

“We could do something about that,” Boromir said, grinning.

“What?” Aragorn said, distracted and not at all sober himself.

Boromir rolled his eyes and grasped Aragorn by the shoulders.

“Just come here.”

Aragorn allowed himself to be dragged into Boromir’s arms and submitted with a bit of confusion, but it only took a moment for his hands to come up and grasp Boromir’s arms, and for his mouth to start fighting Boromir’s for control of the kiss. When they drew apart, both breathing hard, Boromir nodded toward the tent.

“There’s a bit of privacy there, unless you want those other ones watching us.”

“They’re a bit distracted at the moment,” Aragorn observed.

Boromir grabbed him by the tunic and hauled him to his feet. “Come on, now. It’s been much too long and I’ve had quite a bit of that stuff to drink and I’ve got quite a bit of frustration I intend to take out on you.”

Aragorn raised an eyebrow. “What if I don’t agree to that?”

 “Don’t worry. You need it just as badly as I do. Probably worse, considering your wife slipped you drugs just to make sure you’d go out and get fucked by your Steward and leave her alone.”

Aragorn scowled. “You’re likely to get a black eye instead of what you’re looking for if you keep that up.”

Boromir grinned; perhaps his Ranger was still in there somewhere after all.

“You want to fight me to see who gets to be on top?”

“That seems like a waste of energy that could be used for other things,” Aragorn pointed out.

“Good. Then it’s decided,” Boromir said, dragging him toward the tent.

“Now, wait a minute… I didn’t decide anything…”

Legolas glanced over his shoulder. “Hmm. Those two are off. And I believe Eomer’s got Berendir mostly undressed behind that log over there. Shall we adjourn to our tent?”

“No,” Faramir said.

Legolas frowned. “Why not?”

“Because I went in there earlier, and… I got a strange feeling. As if there were someone’s eyes on me. I suspect someone’s keeping an eye on us… and whether it’s Gandalf or Arwen, I don’t particularly want an audience for what I’ve got in mind.”

“Oh? What have you got in mind?”

Faramir nodded toward one of Eomer’s packs. “There’s quite a bit of assorted leather straps and such in there that I intend to borrow while he’s occupied. And there’s a nice bit of forest over there where I doubt anyone will disturb us for quite a while.”

Legolas looked uncertain. “I’m not sure what you intend to do with all that leather.”

“Neither am I. Let’s go find out, shall we?”

 

 

Half a day’s ride away, in a room somewhere among the top levels of Minas Tirith, an elven lady unleashed a stream of curses that would even have impressed her twin brothers, then sighed and resigned herself to watching the other two couples, one who lacked Faramir’s gift of vision and the other who didn’t seem to care if anyone was watching or not; Eomer had only moved into the tent because Berendir was complaining about sticks jabbing him in the ass. Arwen was sorely disappointed that Faramir and Legolas had escaped her vision, but it appeared her night was not going to be dull.

 

 

Despite being not entirely steady on his feet himself, Boromir had managed to navigate Aragorn into their tent without much resistance, although the other man was still complaining about Boromir’s earlier remarks.

“Well, it’s true,” Boromir said finally, grabbing Aragorn by the arm and easing him down onto the pile of blankets.

“What’s true?”

“You do need to be properly fucked. As soon as possible.”

Aragorn scowled, but Boromir had already ducked out of the tent to rummage through his saddle bag, and returned after a moment with a small bottle of oil. Aragorn raised an eyebrow.

“And I’m just supposed to roll over and let you get to it, then?”

“That would be handy,” Boromir said, grinning.

“I am your King,” Aragorn reminded him sharply.

“Pulling rank doesn’t work when you can’t stand up,” Boromir pointed out.

“Fine. Then you get down here.”

“What?”

“You heard me. I’ll wrestle you for it.”

Boromir raised his eyebrows and studied Aragorn curiously, but he was far from sober himself and as far as he was concerned, this seemed like a reasonable option at the time, and the next thing either of them knew, they were grappling clumsily on the ground, bumping into the tent poles as they rolled back and forth. Boromir was a bit amused at first, but Aragorn had spent too many years as a Ranger to allow himself to be manhandled, and he quickly managed to flip Boromir onto his back, but Boromir was heavier and not quite as intoxicated and he rolled them both back again, straddling the other man’s thighs to pin them down and leaning his full weight on his arms across Aragorn’s chest.

“There. Are you going to settle down and behave yourself?” Boromir asked.

“I suppose so,” Aragorn said, a definite hint of sulking in his tone.

“That’s better,” Boromir said, and busied himself undoing the laces of Aragorn’s tunic. When Aragorn made no attempt to resist, he moved to open the laces of his breeches, then cursed as he realized that, as usual, boots were inconveniently obstructing the removal of clothing. He worked at the boot laces, wondering exactly why, even as a king, Aragorn still preferred to wear such shoddy footwear.

The motion happened so fast that it took Boromir a moment to realize what had happened; he was abruptly rolled onto his side and realized that Aragorn’s legs were locked securely around his neck. Aragorn laughed.

“Do you surrender?”

Boromir attempted to say something insulting, but he was being rapidly deprived of enough air to speak properly.

“Surrender, or you’ll go under, and then you’ll wake up with an awful headache and neither of us will have any fun.”

Boromir squirmed and writhed, but Aragorn’s grip was quite secure. Finally, when he started to see white spots flickering across his vision, he slapped frantically at Aragorn’s thigh. Aragorn immediately released him, leaving him sprawled on the ground and gasping like a fish in the bottom of a boat.

“You’re… a… rotten bastard,” he managed eventually.

Aragorn shrugged. “I’m a Ranger.”

“I thought you were drunk.”

“I am. If I wasn’t, it wouldn’t have taken me nearly that long to make you give up.”

“You’re the one without most of your clothes on,” Boromir noted.

“We can fix that,” Aragorn said, grinning.

 

 

“You’re aware I can break these,” Legolas said, flexing his wrists against the straps of leather that bound them together and behind his back.

“That wouldn’t be any sort of fun,” Faramir said, looking down with approval at the neatly bound elf on his knees in front of him.

“I don’t see how you plan to get my clothes off with me tied up like this.”

“I only need access to very specific parts of you,” Faramir pointed out. “If I didn’t have plans for your mouth, I’d have done something about it already.”

“You seem to assume that…”

Legolas went suddenly still, his head tipped back and an expression of intent concentration on his face.

“Faramir.”

“What is it?”

“Wings. Large wings.”

Faramir frowned. “How large?”

“Larger than anything that ought to be around here… do you smell that?”

Faramir took a deep breath through his nose, and his eyes widened as he caught a hint of what the elf spoke of.

 

“Brimstone.”

Legolas jerked himself free of the straps, the leather breaking with a sharp snap, and scrambled to his feet. “No weapons. We’ve got to get back to the others…”

“I don’t think it’s the others who are in trouble,” Faramir said.

 

The sound of heavy, leathery wings became clearly audible overhead, even to Faramir’s human ears, and the branches of the trees over their heads creaked. A moment later, and alarmingly close by, there was an enormous crash of branches and trees cracking under a tremendous blow, and the smell of sulfur was enough to make the man and elf cough. More trees bent and crashed to the ground as something lumbered through them, and then Faramir and Legolas found themselves looking at a broad reptilian head as big as a barrel, with an open mouth filled with dagger-edged teeth and black, quick-moving eyes. Wisps of smoke curled from its nostrils, stinking of brimstone. Behind this head, among the trees, was a body as tall as a draft horse and three times as long, with red-tinged black scales and huge bat-like wings folded down against its back.

“I thought Smaug was the last of the dragons,” Faramir murmured, remaining quite still.

“I heard from Gimli that the dwarves of the Iron Mountains have always said that dragons used to breed in the Northern Wastelands. Perhaps they are again. This is a young one… only a few hundred years, at best. There are many tales of them in Mirkwood. The young ones aren’t as clever or as powerful as their elders, but they’re still dangerous, and this one looks thin. He’s probably been cast out by the older ones and sent off to find his own mischief to get into… dragons aren’t sociable creatures and don’t like others of their kind hanging around.”

The dragon watched them, cocking its head from side to side as if to decide exactly what they were and what they might be up to.

“Look at its neck,” Faramir whispered.

Legolas looked and nodded. “That’s a Mirkwood arrow. It doesn’t seem to be bothering it much, but it must have tried hunting in Mirkwood and been driven off.”

“And you without your bow,” Faramir muttered.

“It wouldn’t matter,” Leglas replied, still unmoving. “It’s far too close. By the time I had an arrow ready it would burn us both to ash; after its run-in with my people in Mirkwood, I’ve no doubt it knows what a bow and arrow are about.”

“What do we do?”

“Stay very still, and hope we don’t smell like supper,” Legolas said grimly.

 

 

Aragorn wasn’t quite certain how he’d ended up on his back again, and scowled up at Boromir.

“I think you’re cheating.”

“Does it matter? We’re both going to enjoy it either way.”

“Did you make sure I got more to drink than you?”

“No,” Boromir said, grinning, “but I outweigh you by quite a bit, and my body’s had quite a lot of practice managing liquor, while yours has not.”

“So you’re saying that you have the advantage because I’m not a habitual drunk?”

“I am not…”

Boromir’s eyes changed, and he sat up. Aragorn looked up at him.

“What is it?”

“Faramir.”

“What? He’s over in the other tent with your favorite elf.”

Boromir shook his head, drawing back. “No… no. He’s… there’s something wrong.”

Aragorn attempted to clear his head of the dual effects of lust and liquor; he knew the connection between the brothers had grown deeper since they’d been together in Minas Tirith instead of away and fighting.

“What’s wrong?”

“I don’t know. They’re not in their tent. They’re in the woods. And there’s something… I can feel his fear. Something’s wrong.”

He stumbled to his feet and grabbed for his clothes, struggling back into them. Aragorn located his own clothes and pulled them on, trying to remember what they had with them in the way of weapons. Not much, really; the two Mirkwood brothers never travelled without their bows, but within the safe and well-guarded lands within a few hours’ ride from Minas Tirith, the men had not burdened themselves with the weight of their full battle broadswords, but smaller and lighter swords effective for minor self-defense and not much else.

He had just straightened up from tying his boot laces when something familiar and alarming drifted across his memory.

 

“Boromir, do you smell that?”

Boromir sniffed and frowned. “Smells like something burning.”

“It’s brimstone.”

“What? Why…”

“Come on. You’re right… something strange is going on.”

 

They burst out of the tent and stopped, surprised to find Berendir sitting on one of the logs, absently checking his arrows.

“What are you doing?” Aragorn asked. “I didn’t think Eomer would have let you go so easily.”

Berendir snorted. “Eomer has very few weaknesses… but overestimating the amount of alcohol he can consume is frequently one of them.”

“So he’s…”

“Passed out and snoring in the tent,” he said, shaking his head. “Mortals.”

“Good,” Boromir said. “I was afraid I’d have to come in and pull him off you. Come with us, and hurry… and bring your bow.”

Berendir shrugged and stood up. “Might as well. Nothing else for me to do tonight, and that awful stench in the air is starting to make my throat sore. What in Gondor stinks of brimstone, anyway?”

“We’re going to find out,” Aragorn said, fairly certain he already knew.

“Just get your bow and move your ass,” Boromir said sharply. “If I’m right, both our brothers are in trouble.”

Berendir’s sarcasm vanished, instantly replaced by the flashing alertness that Boromir had learned to recognize as the look of an elf ready for a fight.

“Then stop chatting, man, and start moving.”

 

“He seems a bit confused,” Legolas whispered.

Faramir nodded; he’d been watching the young dragon closely, and it didn’t seem to have any idea what it ought to be doing with them. It cocked its head again, blew a contemplative huff of smoke, and then crouched down and flicked out its forked tongue.

“What do you think it’s doing in Gondor?”

Legolas glanced at him. “Since when am I an expert in dragon lore? You’re the scholar.”

“I had read in one of Gandalf’s books that young dragons are driven off by their elders and that they can wander around for a long time before finding a suitable home. They’re not at their full power yet.”

“I don’t think this one it very bright,” Legolas said.

“Smaug was a very old and very clever dragon. This one…”

The dragon snorted at them again, smoke puffing from its nostrils. Suddenly, its head jerked up, and it looked quickly off to its left, bat-like ears flicking to alertness.

“Run,” Legolas said, shoving Faramir and bolting off through the trees. Faramir raced after him, but after a minute it became clear that the dragon wasn’t following them.

“What distracted it?” Faramir asked, breathing hard.

“Hopefully not our companions,” Legolas said, shaking his head, “but knowing your brother, it wouldn’t surprise me.”

 

The overall level of alcohol consumed by the rescue party probably had something to do with their carelessness; certainly, it was quite unlike a Ranger to accidentally stumble upon something as large and obvious as a young dragon.

“Shit!” Boromir exclaimed, skidding to a halt as Aragorn thumped into him from behind and Berendir dodged lightly but not very gracefully to the side.

The dragon eyed them warily, mouth half-open and ready to unleash a burst of flame at any moment. The two men and the elf froze.

“What the hell is that?” Boromir hissed.

“It’s a dragon, idiot,” Berendir muttered.

“I know that! What the hell is it doing here?”

The elf shrugged. “I’m not sure. Let me ask it, since clearly all elves are fluent in dragon-speech.”

Aragorn glared at them. “This is neither the time or the place…”

“Where’s Faramir?”

Berendir nodded toward a pile of objects at the foot of a tree. “That’s my brother’s bow. They must have run when we distracted the beast.”

“Excellent,” Aragorn muttered. “So now, what do _we_ do?”

The dragon crouched down again, watching them.

“I don’t think it know what to do with us,” Berendir said.

“Well, we’d better do something with it,” Boromir said. “Can’t have dragons wandering around Gondor.”

There was a disorderly crashing and cursing among the trees behind them. The dragon jerked its head up again, and exhaled an alarmed breath of flame that sent all three of them leaping backwards, only to run into a stumbling, annoyed Eomer.

“What’s all this? Why did you all…”

He saw the dragon and fell silent, sizing it up with a narrow-eyed gaze despite being slightly unsteady on his feet.

“Eomer, don’t do anything stupid,” Berendir warned.

Eomer glared at him. “I will do something stupid if I damn well please.”

“Do you notice it hasn’t done anything yet?” Berendir pointed out.

“I had noticed that,” Aragorn said.

“Are we going to kill it?” Eomer asked.

“I suppose so.”

“Good,” Eomer muttered, and stumbled away. The dragon watched him go, but when the other three began backing away, it glared at them and snorted.

“I think it wants us to stay,” Aragorn said cautiously.

Boromir’s eyes flickered off to the right, and Aragorn followed them to find Faramir and Legolas crouched among the trees. Apparently, the dragon hadn’t noticed them. Boromir raised his eyebrows questioningly, but Fararmir could only answer with a shrug; he didn’t have any idea what to do either.

Berendir reached into the pocket of his tunic and withdrew a small square of lembas. “Let’s see if he’s hungry.”

“Dragons don’t eat lembas,” Boromir scoffed.

“Want to make a bet?”

“Absolutely. I’ll bet you the price of a new pair of riding boots that it won’t eat it.”

Berendir grinned and tossed the lembas toward the dragon. It jerked back warily, then leaned forward, sniffed at the tiny morsel on the ground, and flicked its tongue out. Then, with a quick motion, it snatched the small object in its mouth.

“Bet he spits it out,” Boromir said. Aragorn elbowed him.

The dragon contemplated for a moment, then sat back on its haunches and looked at them expectantly.

“Told you he was hungry,” Berendir said smugly. “You owe me a pair of boots.”

He glanced toward his brother, still hidden among the trees. Legolas took the hint and, grabbing a branch, tossed it toward the beast. It bounced harmlessly off the thick scales of the dragon’s rear end, but the dragon jumped, alarmed, and looked around wildly. This was all the opportunity Berendir needed to vanish.

“I think we’re supposed to fight it,” Boromir said, finding that he wasn’t recalling proper protocol for such situations at the moment.

“I do believe kings and stewards are supposed to do historic and valiant things like that,” Aragorn agreed.

Boromir frowned. “I think there’s a problem, though.”

“What’s that?”

“It would probably be easier to properly vanquish the dragon if it would stop trying to turn into two dragons. And if the ground would stop moving around so much.”

“I’ve noticed that myself,” Aragorn said, and in spite of himself, had to stifle a laugh.

“You’re drunk,” Boromir accused.

“So are you,” Aragorn retorted.

“I thought we’d already well established that.”

Among the trees, Legolas rolled his eyes. “Mortals.”

Faramir chuckled. “You had a fair bit to drink. I wouldn’t put my money on you making one of your brilliant jaw-dropping shots right now.”

Legolas scowled. “Even if I have been drinking, my aim’s still better than yours. Besides, at least I’m not a giggling idiot like those two over there.”

“True,” Faramir agreed. “You know, that dragon doesn’t appear to be very threatening at the moment.”

“I think it’s more confused than anything else,” Legolas said. “If its nesting grounds were the northern wastelands, things that walk about on two legs and shoot things at you are probably a fairly new experience for it.”

The dragon looked up again as Berendir appeared behind the two men, so silently that both of them jumped when he laid a hand on their shoulders. The dragon seemed alarmed by their sudden movement and snorted hot smoke.

“Damnit, you bloody, sneaky, secretive…”

“Hush, Boromir,” Berendir said quickly. “Don’t upset the thing.”

“What are you up to?” Aragorn asked.

Berendir held up a sack. “Seeing if our new friend is hungry for anything besides lembas.”

He reached in and drew out a large chunk of cheese, while the dragon watched with some interest. The elf tossed it forward, and the dragon, after sniffing it for a moment, quickly snatched the morsel and swallowed it, looking thoughtful. Finally, it sat back on its haunches and looked at Berendir expectantly.

“Well, then,” the elf said, amused, and tossed most of a loaf of bread at the beast. This time it didn’t even bother to inspect the treat, but snatched it out of the air and licked its jaws with its forked tongue. The next item was half of a mincemeat pie left from their earlier meal, which the dragon seemed to approve of, and then an apple, which made it scowl, but another large lump of cheese rapidly improved its mood again.

“That’s not nearly enough food to fill up such a creature,” Boromir muttered.

“No, but perhaps you’ve heard the phrase about not biting the hand that feeds you,” Berendir said.

He stepped forward slowly. The dragon watched him, but didn’t seem unduly alarmed, and its lethal jaws remained closed. He began to address it in an elf-tongue that Boromir was fairly sure he’d heard before, but couldn’t remember where.

“Is he speaking Sylvan elf tounge?” Faramir asked, frowning.

Legolas nodded. “Most of the Mirkwood elves still speak some version of it. It’s an old, wild language, and wild things seem to recognize it, even if they don’t understand it. Sometimes, you can charm a deer or a rabbit into shooting range just by speaking it.”

The dragon’s ears pitched forward, and it appeared to be listening to Berendir In a short time he was only a few feet from the dragon’s face, and he waved a hand in front of his nose.

“Ugh. Brimstone and cheese.”

He reached out gingerly and touched the dragon’s nose. It blinked, but otherwise stayed still.

“I think I like him,” Berendir said, grinning at the others. “I believe I’ll call him Osbon.”

Legolas snickered. Faramir raised an eyebrow. “Is that Sindarin?”

“Yes. It means ‘smelly one’.”

“I think we should keep it,” Aragorn said.

Boromir looked at him as if he’d just declared he was going to stand on his head. “What for?”

“Because it’s a dragon. How many Kings of Gondor can claim to have had a dragon?”

“None of the ones that are alive,” Boromir pointed out. “What do you expect to do with it?”

Berendir looked toward his brother. “Legolas, are you sober enough to procure us some rabbits or something for our new friend?”

Legolas snorted, insulted. “I could be blindfolded _and_ drunk and still shoot rabbits.”

He stepped out from his cover and cautiously proceeded toward his gear. The dragon kept an eye on him, but allowed him to collect his bow and quiver.

“I think you two should go back to camp and deal with Eomer before he does anything to get us all killed,” Berendir said, nodding to the two men.

“You get to deal with the dragon and we have to deal with Eomer?”

Berendir chuckled. “Hmm. At the moment they’re both possibly dangerous, smell rather bad, and don’t appear to be extraordinarily bright. I think it’s about equal. And if there’s any of that liquor left, bring it back, and maybe we’ll see if we can improve our new friend’s disposition?”

“Are you sure you want to give a dragon something to make it… excited?” Aragorn asked.

Legolas rolled his eyes. “There’s no aphrodisiac in that liquor, you idiots.”

“Then what were you and Faramir…”

“Well, since the whole point of this excursion was to get you two back in bed together…”

Aragorn flushed. Boromir growled. “And see where it’s gotten us?”

“Mortals,” Legolas muttered.

“That does include me, you know,” Faramir reminded him.

“I’m fully aware of that,” Legolas said, tossing his braids over his shoulder as he stalked away.

“Bloody elves,” Boromir muttered.

At this particular moment, Faramir was inclined to agree with his brother.

 

 

“That’s the fourth rabbit you’ve missed,” Faramir said.

Legolas scowled and retrieved his arrow from where it had embedded itself in the dirt somewhere in the vague vicinity of the rabbit which had formerly been there.

“These are fast rabbits,” the elf muttered.

“Fast rabbits? I’ve seen you knock a swift out of the sky.”

Legolas frowned and brushed the dirt off his arrow. “It’s dark.”

“You’re an elf.”

“Well, it’s…”

Faramir grinned. “Just admit it. You’re drunk.”

“I am _not_ drunk,” Legolas said sharply. “How would I be drunk and you not be…”

“Perhaps if I’d been pouring out my liquor behind your back since our second mug…”

“That’s not at all fair!” Legolas protested, appalled. “You _tricked_ me into drinking enough to keep up with you when you weren’t even drinking!”

Faramir shrugged.

“Why would you do that?”

“Because I’ve never seen you properly drunk, unless I was already more drunk… and since it takes alcohol so much longer to start to affect elves, I’m always at a disadvantage. Even if you do end up staggering drunk by the end of the night, by the time it’s caught up with you, I’ve been out for hours.”

“That’s still not an excuse for tricking me,” Legolas said indignantly.

“I don’t know,” Faramir said. “I think I quite like you being drunk.”

“Why?”

“Well, it’s made your eyes _very_ blue. And your braids are quite a mess. And you’re certainly not your usual sharp and alert self.”

“I hardly see that as…”

“It means,” Faramir explained, “that I find it extremely intriguing, and I propose that I escort your increasingly intoxicated self back to camp and fuck you until the sun comes up.”

“Oh,” Legolas said, blinking. He looked down at the arrow in his hand. “Err… hunting rabbits?”

“It’s Berendir’s stupid dragon. He can hunt his own rabbits. I don’t get an opportunity like this every day, you know.”

“Well,” Legolas managed, as Faramir took the arrow away and returned it to its quiver before taking the elf by the arm and directing him back toward the camp.

 

There was no sign of Eomer when Boromir and Aragorn stumbled back into the camp. In the firelight, Aragorn counted the proper number of horses silhouetted in the darkness.

“Wonder where he went off to,” he muttered.

Boromir shrugged. “Well, since he’s not here, perhaps we should get on with…”

There was a tremendous crash from inside Eomer’s tent.

“Never mind,” Boromir sighed.

Eomer pushed aside the tent flap and stumbled out, brandishing a sword, his hair a wild mane around his head and a battle-ready set to his jaw.

“Where’s the bloody dragon?” he demanded.

“It’s off there somewhere,” Aragorn said, waving in a general direction, since he wasn’t sure which direction they’d come from. “Why?”

“Because I’m going to go chop its bloody head off!” Eomer declared.

“I doubt that,” Aragorn muttered.

“Aren’t we supposed to be keeping him from getting himself killed or something like that?” Boromir asked.

“I think so,” Aragorn said, frowning. “Well, then, I suppose we’d better take that sword away from him before he gets into trouble with it.”

“How do you plan to do that?”

“Hmm. You distract him, and I’ll take it from him.”

“How am I supposed to distract him?”

“I don’t know! Tell him some bad jokes about tits. Those worked earlier.”

“I don’t think he’s in the mood for jokes…”

Aragorn was already approaching Eomer with what could possibly be called an attempt at stealth. Boromir hurried to block the younger man’s determined but directionless stomping.

“Eomer! What was that joke you were telling me earlier about the…”

Eomer growled. “Get out of my way, before I chop your head off.”

Aragorn winced; Boromir’s response was entirely predictable.

“Cut my head off, you bloody stupid drunk? Come over here and try it!”

Eomer roared and charged at him. Fortunately, he seemed to have forgotten he had the sword, which Boromir kicked out of his hand before swinging a punch at his jaw. Eomer avoided it, more by virtue of staggering backwards than any actual skill, and launched himself back with a flurry of blows directed at Boromir’s general vicinity. Aragorn moved, ready to intervene, but there was a hard thud as Boromir got his arms around Eomer’s waist and twisted them both, dropping them to the ground with Boromir on top. Eomer swore loudly and managed to land a punch on the side of Boromir’s head, but there wasn’t much force behind it with Boromir’s hands around his throat.

“Boromir!” Aragorn said sharply.

Boromir rolled his eyes and released Eomer’s neck. The Horse Lord glared at him.

“How dare you…”

“Shut up, Eomer, if you know what’s good for you,” Aragorn advised.

“I have a dragon to kill!” he bellowed.

Boromir stood up, dusted himself off, and pulled Eomer to his feet. He looked around before grabbing a stick off the pile of wood by the fire.

“Here. Take this with you.”

“That’s not my sword,” Eomer said, eyes narrowing.

“This dragon is immune to weapons of metal,” Aragorn jumped in quickly. “It can only be killed with an enchanted wand.”

“This looks like a stick,” Eomer said suspiciously.

“Well, if it bloody looked like an enchanted wand, don’t you think the dragon would figure out something was up?” Boromir snapped.

“Ahh,” Eomer said, grinning. “Good. Now, where is the beast?”

“Over there,” Aragorn said, pointing in the only direction he was fairly confident did _not_ contain a dragon.

“Excellent,” Eomer said, brandishing his stick. “Wish me luck! I’ll bring you back the beast’s head for breakfast!”

The other two men watched him stumble into the darkness.

“I’m not sure that actually counts as keeping an eye on him,” Aragorn said.

“He’s got nothing but a stick and he’s walking toward Minas Tirith,” Boromir chuckled. “Besides, I believe we have other things to do.”

“Oh?”

Boromir wrapped one hand around Aragorn’s tunic and drew him toward the tent. “You know there’s nothing I like after a good fight than a good fuck.”

“I thought it was the other way around,” Aragorn said, unresisting as he was led.

“Either way. Doesn’t much matter,” Boromir said, pulling him closer and licking at his exposed throat. “They’re generally almost the same thing, aren’t they?”

Aragorn pretended to be offended. “Does that mean you just fucked Eomer?”

“No. Too many clothes, and I don’t approve of being punched in the head by someone I’m fucking.”

“I’ll remember that,” Aragorn said.

“No, you won’t,” Boromir said, grinning. “It’ll be a miracle if any of us remember anything that happened tonight.”

“I think I’ll remember the part about the dragon,” Aragorn noted.

“Let me introduce you to my own personal pet dragon,” Boromir said, snickering as he backed into the tent.

Aragorn snorted. “Does it breathe fire when it’s angry?”

“No…”

“Good. That would be uncomfortable.”

“But it does spit at you if you meddle with it.”

“What a charming beast.”

“Get over here,” Boromir ordered, and drew him down onto the bedrolls as he pulled his tunic over his head. “Enough stupidity for one night. Eomer’s gone, Berendir’s playing dragon-keeper…”

“You’re brother’s playing ‘hide the dragon’ with his elf…” Aragorn interjected, giggling and drawing a sharp look from Boromir.

“Do you want to be fucked or not?”

“I suppose so,” Aragorn said, grinning.

“Then lie there and stop talking!”

“You’re always such a romantic.”

“Do you want me to gag you?”

Aragorn considered it for a moment. “It might be interesting. But no thanks.”

“Good. Then stop talking.”

 

 

Faramir laughed as Legolas raised his foot to allow the man to pull his boot off.

“You’re unusually cooperative.”

“Maybe you should get me drunk more often,” the elf said, lazily raising his other foot as he sprawled back on the bedrolls. “It’s rather nice. I like not being responsible for my own behavior.”

“Oh?”

“Of course. If it’s your fault I’ve had too much to drink, and I do something foolish and inappropriate, that can hardly be considered my fault… so it must be yours.”

“Did you plan on doing something foolish and inappropriate?”

“Not really. I planned to just lie here and see what you were up to.”

Faramir grinned and reached up to pull out the already disheveled braids, which would normally infuriate Legolas, but at the moment he seemed unconcerned. Just to see what liberties he could take, he took a handful of the blond hair and deliberately twisted it into a knot. Legolas scowled.

“You went to all the trouble to trick me into being drunk, and now all you want to do is play with my hair?”

The elf did have a point, Faramir thought. He drew back and began stripping off his own clothes.

“Aren’t you worried about whoever was watching us earlier?” Legolas asked.

“First of all, not at the moment,” the man said, chuckling. “I want you badly enough to fuck you in front of anyone who wanted to watch, and you’d probably let me. But no… I don’t think anyone’s watching anymore. They seem to have given up and gone away.”

“Hmm. An audience would have been interesting.”

Faramir stretched himself out over the wiry body beneath him. “I’d prefer not to have one. I like knowing I’m the only one who gets to see this.”

He drew a hand over the elf’s lean chest to make his point. Legolas grinned.

“I hope you aren’t under the illusion that in two thousand and some years, you’re the only person who’s gotten to see it.”

Faramir rolled his eyes. “Hardly. As far as I can tell, elves will apparently get naked any time they’re anywhere near a body of water that might offer a bath.”

Legolas grinned. “All elves? How many elves do you know? Maybe I just like stripping for mortals at the slightest excuse.”

Faramir reached for his bag and retrieved a bottle of oil, knowing the elf’s eyes were following him. He poured some over his fingers and absently rubbed them together as he turned back to study his lazily amused companion.

“I hadn’t thought of that. My brother complained that every time your party got near a stream, you had your clothes off.”

“He wasn’t complaining at the time,” Legolas said, stretching. “And neither was anybody else.”

“That’s very shameful, you know,” Faramir said. “Tempting Aragorn and my poor brother with your strip teases. Not to mention the hobbits!”

“You don’t seem to be upset about it,” Legolas said, glancing down the man’s body. “Seems to have you rather excited.”

“Thinking about hobbits gawping at you bathing?”

“Thinking about me stripping for Aragorn and your brother.”

Faramir, suddenly possessive, leaned down and bit sharply on the soft skin below the elf’s collarbone, sucking hard until Legolas made a protesting noise and tugged at his hair. He raised his head and studied the lurid red mark with satisfaction.

“They didn’t get to do that, did they.”

“No,” Legolas agreed.

“Or this,” Faramir said, as his oil-slicked fingers set themselves to work, and Legolas attempted to say something else about the matter, but Faramir knew by now exactly how to silence the elf even in his most argumentative moods, and in very little time his chatting was replaced by small sounds and gasps. Faramir looked up, enjoying the sight of the elf’s head tossed back, blond hair knotted and disorderly, face flushed. He was vaguely aware of some shouting of some sort either outside or in one of the other tents, but since it didn’t sound like anyone was in danger of serious injury, he decided to ignore it.

 

“What the bloody hell is that racket?” Boromir demanded, scowling.

“Damnit, Boromir…” Aragorn protested, as this interruption had caused the other man to remove his mouth from Aragorn’s cock, which had been greatly enjoying the attention.

Boromir listened for a moment. “I think it’s just bloody Eomer crashing around swearing at things. Did we hide his sword?”

“He probably can’t find his tent, much less his sword,” Aragorn protested, a desperate edge to his voice. “Stop worrying about it!”

Boromir contemplated taking the opportunity to harass the other man about how suddenly he had decided to stop worrying about what everyone else was up to, but that was likely to start another argument, and he was much too close to getting what he wanted now to delay it.

“Was there something else you wanted me to be doing?” he asked, sitting up and straddling Aragorn’s thighs so he could take a moment to appreciate the sight of his King, skin glowing with a sheen of sweat in the dim light from a small lamp hanging from the poles above them, his dark hair spread across the blankets, his hips shifting as his cock begged for the wet heat that had encompassed it a moment ago.

“You do need to be fucked, don’t you?” Boromir said, unable to resist.

Aragorn gave him a sharp look. “Must we start this again?”

“I’d rather not,” Boromir said. “I was just getting you where I wanted to you.”

Aragorn looked hopeful that Boromir might go back to what he was doing. He didn’t seem terribly disappointed, though, when the other man decided instead to press his legs apart and slide between them, his oiled cock sliding along the inside of Aragorn’s thigh.

Something crashed loudly in the general vicinity of the tent, and this time it was definitely Eomer’s voice, cursing loudly and, from the sound of it, throwing things across the campsite. His voice was quite slurred, though, and he seemed to be losing momentum.

“I think he’s wearing himself out,” Boromir chuckled.

“Shame for Berendir,” Aragorn said.

“He’s got a dragon to entertain, anyway.”

Aragorn frowned. “Weren’t we supposed to be keeping Eomer away from the dragon? And aren’t Legolas and Faramir in their tent? Who’s…”

Boromir decided that the best way to answer all of these questions was to grasp Aragorn’s thighs and raise them to wrap them around his waist as he pressed his cock to Aragorn’s oiled body.

“Let’s not worry about that right now,” he suggested.

Aragorn answered with a groan and grasped at Boromir’s arms, arching his back and tightening his legs around Boromir’s waist, trying to pull him in.

“Easy, now,” Boromir muttered, struggling to keep his senses. “It’s been some time… I don’t want it to hurt...”

“I don’t _care_ ,” Aragorn moaned, his head tossed back. “ _Please_.”

Boromir couldn’t have resisted that plea if he was stone cold sober, and that he certainly was not. He pressed forward, feeling the tight opening resist for a moment before yielding, drawing him into the welcome, long-desired heat. He knew Aragorn would not hold it against him if he had chosen to seek companionship elsewhere when they were apart, but there was no other body that would feel so right against his own, that would fit his so well. Aragorn’s legs locked around his body, and his arms grasped at Boromir’s shoulders as he lowered himself down, one hand on either side of Aragorn’s chest. Aragorn, his breath still tight and controlled from the abrupt entry, arched up and caught Boromir’s mouth with his own, hot and demanding. Boromir realized how long it had been since he’d been kissed by anyone other than over-affectionate hobbits, how long it had been since he had tasted Aragorn’s mouth against his own, and it drew a low moan from deep in his chest.

He felt Aragorn slowly loosen his grip on him, the tightness of his muscles easing, and he took that as permission to draw back and slide carefully back in, but Aragorn wanted nothing to do with caution, and it was probably a good thing, because Boromir immediately realized he wasn’t going to be able to hold back if he wanted to. Aragorn arched up against him, meeting every thrust, nails digging into Boromir’s shoulders, murmuring something incoherent and frantic.

“Please… need…”

Boromir managed with the last bit of sense in his head to reach down and grasp Aragorn’s cock and close his hand around it. Almost before his hand began to move over the slicked shaft, Aragorn jerked sharply and gasped out Boromir’s name as heat spread between their bodies. With that, Boromir could, with tremendous relief, give in to the demands of his own body and allow the release he’d been holding back, his exclamations muffled against Aragorn’s chest.

They sprawled together for a while in contented silence, and Boromir thought he could quite happily roll over and fall asleep, but then the racket outside the tent started up again, this time louder than before, and this time Eomer was definitely upset about something.

“What’s he shouting at Berendir about?” Aragorn muttered sleepily.

Boromir frowned. “If Berendir’s here, then where is…”

Aragorn lifted his head. “Do you smell brimstone?”

“Bloody hell.”

 

 

Faramir had been taking his time with his unusually complacent elf, and so it was with uncharacteristic annoyance that he directed some very vulgar warnings at whoever was moving the tent flaps, threatening to disturb them. Legolas was too far gone to notice, with Faramir’s arm holding him upright against the man’s chest and his head laid back against Faramir’s shoulder. Faramir had been enjoying the opportunity to torture him by pinning him here and tormenting him with short, hard thrusts, slapping his hands away when the elf reached for his own cock, and this disturbance was entirely unacceptable.

“Whoever that is, go away!” he shouted toward the tent flaps.

No one answered, but the flaps continued to move. Faramir growled in annoyance, and Legolas raised his head, dazed and flushed.

“What?”

“Who is that?” Faramir demanded. “If it’s you, Eomer, I’m going to come out there and beat your stupid drunken head in!”

The tent flaps parted, but the head that poked in wasn’t Eomer’s; this head was the size of a large cask, with red scales and a very large mouth and shiny, reptilian eyes that stared at them through a veil of smoke that drifted from the large nostrils. Faramir froze, and so did Legolas, both of them staring blankly.

“What’s it doing?” Faramir whispered.

“Looking at us,” Legolas said.

“What for?”

“Maybe we’re turning it on,” Legolas said, snickering. “Maybe it wants to join in.”

“Don’t be daft!”

“I’m not daft. I’m drunk.”

“Fuck,” Faramir muttered. Then, raising his voice, “Berendir! Come get your bloody dragon!”

The argument outside stopped, and they could hear Berendir’s outburst of laughter as he approached the tent.

“Bad Osbon! Bad dragon!” he chuckled. “Come here… come on now… I’ve got some more sausages for you…”

The dragon cocked his head, listening, and seemed to recognize the coaxing tone of the voice if not the words. It backed up, letting the tent flaps fall shut, and they could hear its tail dragging past the tent as it turned back toward Berendir.

 

“You see?” the elf said sharply, glaring at Eomer. “He’s already quite tame. There’s no good reason to chop his head off, not that you could if you wanted to.”

“It’s a bloody dragon!” Eomer bellowed. He had apparently had a run-in with some rather muddy places during his wandering and had lost his stick as well as one of his boots.

“People have kept tamed dragons before,” Berendir said. “I read that the dwarves…”

“Do I look like a bloody dwarf?” Eomer shouted.

“No. You look like a great, filthy, drunken idiot who needs to go to bed!”

“I am the King of Rohan!”

“Well, right now the King of Rohan is behaving like a filthy, drunken idiot!”

Eomer glared at him. “Don’t talk to me that way.”

“Then go into your tent and go to sleep, and in the morning we’ll have a decent conversation.”

“We are not having any sort of conversation! That bloody dragon is not coming to Rohan!”

Berendir glanced at the dragon, who was lurking behind him, sniffing at the packs which had contained most of the food.

“Why not?”

“Because,” Eomer said, attempting to sound stern and logical, “Rohan, if you hadn’t noticed, is the land of horses and their riders.”

“And?”

“And that,” Eomer shouted, losing his attempt at composure, “means that you cannot bring a thing that breathes fire into a kingdom that is BLOODY MADE OF HAY!”

Berendir glanced at the dragon, who appeared somewhat agitated by the shouting, and sighed. “I suppose he would be rather hazardous around stables. And storage barns and such.”

Eomer rolled his eyes. “I figured that out, and I’m the one who’s drunk!”

Berendir patted the dragon’s nose affectionately. It blinked and looked at him with some puzzlement. Berendir murmured some reassurance about Eomer being a great noisy beast and not to pay any attention to him, but since Eomer spoke almost no Sindarin, and certainly none of the Mirkwood dialect, he couldn’t complain.

“Fine,” the elf said, after a moment. “We’ll discuss with Aragorn and Boromir in the morning. Perhaps they can keep him at Minas Tirith somehow.”

Eomer shrugged. “I still think we should cut off its head, but if the Gondorians want it, they’re welcome to it.”

He stumbled toward the tent, glancing over his shoulder.

“Are you coming to bed, elf?”

“No, thank you,” Berendir said coolly.

“Why not?”

“Because you’re drunk and you’re filthy and you’re an ass and you smell worse than the dragon!” the elf snapped.

Eomer muttered something, but stumbled off into his tent and was silent until the snoring began a few minutes later. Berendir sighed and sat down on a log by the fire, digging into one of the bags and finding a handful of sausages. The dragon laid its head on the log beside him, looking hopefully at the meat.

“I’ll only give you one if you can answer to your name,” he said. “What’s your name? Is it Aragorn? No? How about Eomer? Hmm. How about Osbon?”

The dragon opened its mouth.

“Good dragon!” Berendir exclaimed, dropping a sausage into the gaping, tooth-filled maw. The dragon swallowed it and looked at him expectantly.

“You’re better company than stupid, useless mortals anyway,” he muttered, tossing it the rest of the sausage. “Maybe I’ll see about going to Minas Tirith and becoming an official Royal Dragon-Keeper. Wouldn’t that piss Eomer off?”

The dragon glanced toward Eomer’s tent.

“Yes, that Eomer,” Berendir said, chuckling as the dragon blew a snort of disapproving smoke.

“Damnit, Berendir!” came a tired, irritable voice from one of the other tents. “Some of us are trying to sleep, not listen to you talk to your stupid dragon!”

“Is that Boromir? I thought you were fucking.”

“We’re done with that. Now we’d like to be sleeping, so shut up!”

Berendir lowered his voice. “They’re idiots too. Don’t mind them. Now, I’d like to know exactly what you saw when you went sticking your head into my brother’s tent earlier… and I wouldn’t mind seeing the looks on their faces when you did, either.”

“If you must know,” Legolas called, having much better ears than the sleepy mortals around him, “I thought it was quite exciting. I wanted him to stay. I think it’s much more fun with a dragon wa…”

Whatever he was going to say was abruptly muffled, and Faramir was muttering something about never allowing Legolas to go anywhere near any liquor again. Berendir shrugged and leaned against the dragon’s broad, scaly side, looking up at the stars and the hint of gray starting to tint the eastern sky.

 

Boromir rolled over and groaned, trying to shade his eyes from what little sunlight filtered through the sides of the tent. Beside him, Aragorn yawned, naked and sprawled in a very un-kingly fashion.

“Ugh,” Boromir muttered. “You’d think we’d know better than to drink that much.”

“You’d think we’d know better than a lot of things,” Aragorn said, sitting up cautiously to see how his pounding headache would tolerate it.

“True,” Boromir agreed. “I don’t know what sort of liquor that was that your wife sent with us, but I had the strangest dreams…”

Aragorn glanced at him. “They weren’t about a dragon trying to watch your brother and his elf having sex, were they?”

Boromir rubbed his head. “Damn. I was hoping it was a dream. The whole dragon bit and all of it.”

“There were some good parts to the evening,” Aragorn said, smiling slyly.

Boromir grinned. “There were. And I notice that you appear to still be naked, and so do I, which means that we could…”

“Wake up, sleepyheads!” a cheerful voice rang out.

“Is that Berendir?” Boromir said irritably. “Bloody elves…”

“They don’t get hangovers,” Aragorn said enviously. “If he’s up and about, we might as well not bother. Besides, what time is it?”

He peered through the tent flaps and frowned.

“Did someone turn our tent around while we were sleeping?”

“Not that I know of. Why?”

“Because the sun’s over there,” Aragorn said, pointing, “and that means it’s mid-afternoon!”

Berendir and Legolas chuckled as they passed the tent, Berendir with a pair of rabbits neatly cleaned and hanging from a rope over his shoulder. Legolas appeared recovered from the night before, but Berendir still hadn’t let him have his arrows back yet, just in case. Faramir was packing up the cluttered and scattered remnants of their excursion under the curious eye of the dragon.

“Osbon!” Berendir called.

The dragon turned to him hopefully, and he tossed the two rabbits into the large, tooth-filled maw. The dragon consumed this snack contentedly and watched with mild interest as the two elves went to fetch the horses, which had wandered during the night but were quick to return at a whistle.

“Who’s going to wake Eomer up?” Boromir asked, emerging from his tent half-dressed and disheveled. “Because it’s not going to be me.”

“Maybe we ought to just leave him here,” Aragorn suggested. “Waking him might be dangerous at the moment. Besides, Arwen will be waiting, and…”

“Arwen couldn’t wait to get rid of you, and she’s not in a hurry to have you back,” Legolas interrupted. “But I’ll wake our Horse Lord… although I suggest you all be prepared to run afterwards.”

He picked up a bucket of water from beside the fire.

“I wouldn’t do that, Legolas…” Berendir warned.

“Elf, don’t be…”

“Legolas, that’s…”

Legolas kicked the tent flaps aside and, with an expert flip, tossed the entire contents of the bucket over the sprawled, snoring Horse Lord. There were a few confused mutterings, and then a tremendous bellow, like a bull spotting a challenger. Legolas bolted, laughing, and darted between the horrified men, racing off toward the trees. A moment later, Eomer staggered out of his tent, only vaguely resembling a human, much less a king, with his hair wet and muddy, his clothes in shambles, one bare foot, and his face contorted with rage. The torrent of curses that poured from his mouth eventually began to resolve into words, most of them anatomically impossible threats aimed at the retreating elf. Seeing that Legolas was far out of reach, he turned on Berendir, who shrugged absently.

“Don’t bother to shout at me. I wasn’t the one with the bucket.”

“You’re the one with the dragon!” Eomer shouted.

Berendir reached over and patted Osbon on the nose. “Don’t shout at him. He doesn’t appreciate it.”

Eomer sputtered for a moment, incoherent, before turning to Aragorn and Boromir.

“What are you two doing? Why did that bloody elf throw water on me? Why is that dragon still here? Where’s my other boot? What the bloody hell is going on around here?”

Boromir grinned. “Looks to me like it’s pretty much the same thing that happens every time you and I get drunk together… with some minor variations.”

Eomer scowled, but settled somewhat. “There wasn’t a dragon last time.”

“No, but there was that horrid-looking barmaid…”

“Ugh. I think I’d prefer the dragon,” Eomer said, rubbing his face. “At least I’m only missing one boot this time.”

“And you still have your pants,” Aragorn added helpfully.

“No thanks to a certain elf,” Eomer muttered, glaring at Berendir. “You’re probably lucky I don’t remember any of the things you said to me last night, you know.”

Berendir arched one eyebrow, and Boromir thought for a moment that he looked tremendously like Legolas and even more like Thranduil, with the same calculated precision.

“You mean the part where I called you a filthy, drunken, foul-smelling idiot?” he inquired.

Eomer’s face reddened, and his jaw clenched, but he turned without a word and ducked back into his tent. He emerged a moment later, carrying a bundle of clothes and other items, which he began shoving into his saddlebag.

“I shall be departing for Rohan immediately,” he said. “Do whatever you please with the dragon, and with that bloody ill-tempered disrespectful elf.”

“He comes by it naturally,” Faramir murmured, glancing in the direction Legolas had bolted. “It seems to be inherited.”

“Well, you can bloody have both of them!” Eomer growled, strapping his packs closed and storming off to find his horse.

Faramir glanced at Berendir. “The idea isn’t entirely without merit, you know.”

Aragorn coughed. “That may be more trouble than you want to take on, young Faramir.”

Faramir smiled serenely. “I seem to have a talent for managing troublesome elves.”

Berendir turned back to the dragon to hide his flush. “Well, are we taking this fellow back to Minas Tirith?”

“We can’t…” Aragorn began.

“Of course we are!” Boromir interrupted. “Gondor’s going to be the only kingdom with its own dragon! And of course, Berendir, we shall set up a position for you as official dragon-keeper if you’ll come along and help manage the beast.”

“A salary will have to be negotiated,” Berendir said.

“Bloody elves,” Boromir muttered. “Anyway, we ought to start back. I’ll have some of the young recruits come out tomorrow and clean up this mess. Aragorn’s anxious to get back to his wife so he can get back to bothering and irritating her.”

Legolas eventually emerged from hiding, still snickering to himself, and the group saddled their horses and rode off toward Minas Tirith, with the sun sinking gradually toward the horizon and the sky reddening.

“It’s going to be after dark when we get back,” Aragorn said. “Arwen will be…”

“Probably peacefully asleep and hoping you don’t come back till tomorrow,” Boromir said.

Berendir glanced back at Osbon, who was following along behind them, tail dragging along the ground, sniffing at odd smells as they went.

“Is there a safe bit of forest somewhere outside the city he can be left for the night?” he asked. “He seems to be full for now, so I don’t expect he’ll go anywhere.”

“He can have a nap down by the hobbits’ pond,” Boromir said. “We’ll make some more permanent arrangements for him tomorrow.”

By the time the city of Minas Tirith came into view, the sky was entirely dark, with pale wisps of clouds drifting across the stars. However, for some reason, the city was ablaze with light.

“What’s all this?” Aragorn asked, frowning. “This time of night, most of the lights should be out.”

“All the lamps in all the guard towers are lit…” Boromir muttered. “Has something gone wrong?”

Legolas grinned. “On the contrary. I think something’s gone right.”

“What the bloody hell are you talking about?” Boromir demanded.

Legolas shrugged. “It looks to me rather like the whole city is celebrating something of rather great importance.”

Aragorn’s eyes widened. “You don’t think…”

Boromir burst out laughing, loudly enough to startle Berendir’s horse. “Devious elf women! She sent you away to make sure you wouldn’t be lurking around being impossible during the…”

“You can’t be serious,” Aragorn said, his voice slightly unsteady. “She wouldn’t have…”

“This is Arwen we’re talking about,” Legolas reminded him. “Of course she would have. And I believe she did.”

Boromir, delighted by Aragorn’s bewilderment, slapped his horse on the rump. “Get moving, man! You’ve got business to attend to!”

 

Once Aragorn had sent his horse galloping off toward the city, Boromir’s good humor faded somewhat, and he looked toward Legolas.

“Do you think everything is all right?”

“I don’t doubt it,” Legolas said.

“She is Galadriel’s granddaughter,” Faramir added. “I suspect she knew exactly when it all was going to happen, and if she thought there was going to be trouble, she wouldn’t have sent him off.”

“I’m never, _ever_ getting married,” Boromir said.

Berendir giggled and elbowed his brother. “He’s not in much danger of getting anybody pregnant either, is he?”

“There are distinct advantages to maintaining intimate relations with individuals who are in no danger of producing accidental offspring,” Faramir agreed.

“Well, one of us has got to produce one at some point,” Boromir said, scowling. “Especially now that our magnificent King has gone and done it.”

“Not me,” Faramir said cheerfully.

“Well, it won’t be me,” Boromir argued.

“Flip a coin for it,” Berendir suggested.

“You’re the oldest,” Faramir said.

“You’re the one who always talked about wanting to have children!” Boromir protested.

All of them fell silent for a moment. Legolas and Faramir exchanged a quick glance.

“Well, I’ve changed my plans,” Faramir said. “And everyone already has a fairly good idea why Legolas shares my rooms and why I don’t have a wife yet. You’re Gondor’s most desirable bachelor.”

Berendir laughed. “I’d hate to see Gondor’s _least_ eligible bachelor.”

“Come on,” Boromir said, shaking his head. “I’d better be around to catch Aragorn when he passes out.”

He urged his horse forward, and the others followed.

 

The entire city was buzzing with activity, all of the bars open on the first levels, and toasts being called out to the Royal Family and to Gondor. Berendir, concerned that all the activity might disturb his dragon, elected to spend the remainder of the night in the forest with him, leaving Boromir, his brother, and Legolas to proceed upward through the city.

The halls outside the Royal rooms were bustling with people, all of them talking amongst themselves and none of them seeming to have anything useful to do, aside from the few elf women who pushed their way between them: Arwen’s ladies-in-waiting, fetching whatever they’d been sent off for. A pair of guards blocked their way at the entrance.

“We’re not to let anyone in, Lord Steward,” one of them said, apologetic. “Orders of the King.”

“The King’s gone bloody daft,” Boromir snapped. “Go and ask the Queen.”

The guard bowed and ducked inside, returning a moment later.

“Well?” Boromir demanded.

“The Queen agrees with your assessment of the King’s current state, and has given orders that we are to escort the three of you inside immediately.”

A fire was burning in the broad hearth of the entry room, and several more elf ladies were seated near it, giggling and whispering excitedly in Sindarin. One of them rose and motioned for them to follow her down the hall.

In the royal couple’s private chambers, Aragorn was seated in a chair by the window with what appeared to be a stiff drink in his hand, looking entirely bewildered. Seeing Boromir, he looked hopeful that he might be rescued from this completely befuddling situation, but Boromir had no intention of letting him off the hook.

“The proud father!” he said heartily. Aragorn’s face lost some of its color.

“Don’t torment him,” Arwen said, amused. She was settled comfortably into the large bed, hair brushed and loose around her shoulders, and a bundle wrapped in white blankets nestled in one arm. “He’s half lost his mind already; I don’t want him losing the rest of it.”

Boromir hadn’t heard the last part of what she said; his eyes had fixed on the little thing snuggled against her. She caught him staring and smiled gently.

“Come and meet her, Boromir. Don’t be afraid… I promise she won’t hurt you.”

He approached the bed cautiously. Arwen laughed and pulled back a corner of the blanket to reveal a small, fair-skinned, sleeping face with a dusting of dark hair and slightly pointed ears. The baby make a small noise and waved a miniature fist at Boromir.

“Shh,” Arwen murmured, then whispered something in Sindarin.

“What did you tell her?” he asked.

She glanced at Legolas and smiled.

“She said,” Legolas translated, “that she shouldn’t be afraid of you, because you’ll always be watching out for her.”

Boromir suddenly wished he had a large mug of whatever Aragorn was drinking.

“I’m assuming she has a name,” Legolas prompted.

“Her name is Livien Elanoriel,” Arwen said.

“That’s a long name for such a little thing,” Legolas said. Then, turning to Boromir, “Livien means ‘link daughter’, I presume because she’s the first link in many generations between elf and mortal blood, and Elanoriel means ‘star-sun girl’… it’s a flower that grows in Rivendell.”

“So,” Faramir said, leaning over to look at the little sleeping face, “how is the new princess to be addressed?”

Arwen stroked her face, drawing a few sleepy blinks. “Elanoriel will be her proper royal name. Among family, I believe that Livien will suit her quite well. Or perhaps just Liv.”

“May I…” Faramir asked hesitantly.

He had intended just to touch the little girl, but Arwen lifted her and, before he could protest, had handed her over. Alarmed, he handled the little creature as if she might either be made of glass or about to explode, but when she did neither, he managed to get her tucked into his arms. She blinked up at him and yawned.

“She’s lovely,” he said. “She looks like an elf.”

“She has her father’s eyes, if she would open them for you,” Arwen said. “Do you want me to take her back now?”

“Can I hold her a moment longer?”

Arwen smiled and motioned for him to sit down in the chair beside the bed. “Hold her as long as you like.”

“Or until she starts crying,” Legolas said. “That’s the proper time to give them back to their mothers and leave.”

“She’s not crying yet,” Boromir said, grinning. “I think she likes you, little brother.”

Faramir was still staring down at the baby, ignoring his brother. Boromir glanced at Legolas and chuckled.

“Still think we should flip that coin?”

He had expected Legolas to laugh; instead the elf turned away with a frown.

“Congratulations, Aragorn,” Boromir said. “You’ve got a daughter.”

“I thought it would be a boy,” Aragorn said.

“What?”

“You know. A boy. I would have at least had some idea what to do with a boy.”

Arwen reached out and took the baby back from Faramir; he seemed reluctant to let go.

“Don’t worry,” she said. “You’ll have many chances to hold her. “After all, you and your brother are family to us… and that means you, too, Legolas.”

“I’m not changing any diapers,” the elf said firmly.

Aragorn looked alarmed. “Men have to do that?”

“Of course they do, darling!” Arwen said, laughing. “You’ll be an expert at it shortly.”

Aragorn rubbed his head and groaned. Boromir laughed.

“You looked better when you had a hangover.”

“Oh, that’s right!” Arwen said cheerfully. “Sit down, all of you, and tell me how your evening went! I’m sure it was… entertaining.”

“It was… until the dragon showed up,” Boromir said.

Arwen frowned. “Estel, what dragon?”

“Don’t worry,” Legolas said. “Berendir gave it some lembas and some liquor and a few sausages and now it follows him like a puppy.”

Arwen turned and gave her husband a sharp look. “Estel… _what dragon?_ ”

“Oh… the one…”

“Perhaps we’ll let Aragorn tell this story himself,” Faramir said, taking Legolas by the arm, and they slipped out with Boromir on their heels, leaving Aragorn to explain it all. 


End file.
